


and i am not resigned

by batyatoon



Category: Critical Role
Genre: Aftermath, Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Canon, Why Is Everything Terrible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 21:42:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17947628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batyatoon/pseuds/batyatoon
Summary: I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.Sometimes a cleric of the Raven Queen is exactly the person you need to talk to when mourning the death of a family member.  Sometimes … not so much.





	and i am not resigned

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains spoilers through the end of Campaign #1 and the Vox Machina one-shot _The Search for Grog_. The title is from Edna St. Vincent Millay's "[Dirge Without Music](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52773/dirge-without-music)."
> 
> Thanks to [NevillesGran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran) for beta reading.
> 
> * * *

The silence in Scanlan's Magnificent Mansion is a blessing, after the ceaseless howling winds of Pandemonium. They need the night's rest; after tracking down the mad githzerai and wrangling back their possessions, none of the casters have the strength to plane-shift them home.

Percy's making his way back to his and Vex's room from the baths, alternately stretching and swinging his restored arm -- it seems to work as well as ever, though he's going to need to practice reloading, to see if his fingers still have the old muscle memory. He turns a corner, and has a brief bad moment on seeing the figure waiting there for him: pale skin, dark hair tucked behind pointed ears, black cloak with a feathered crest framing the face --

It's the cleric, Lieve'tel, of course. Looking none the worse for her temporary death, and that thought will make him angry (angrier; the anger’s never quite left) if he lets it. Instead he gives her a polite smile and nod, and makes to pass her by.

“Lord Percival,” she says, in that husky soft voice that's an irritation all by itself -- does she think he can't tell it's put on, something to make her sound more spiritual or ethereal or some damn thing? And the reticence in her tone as well, a show of pious humility and submission to her god, he'd hate that even if he didn't know perfectly well what the real thing sounds like --

“Would you grant me a few moments of your time, please? I'd like to speak to you.”

“It’s very late,” he starts, not at all sure whether he’s going to end with a refusal or not.

“I’ll do my best to be brief, then.” She studies him for a beat. “In Vasselheim, you spoke of a debt that the Matron owes you. A centuries-long process to repay, you said.”

A wave of heat goes right up his spine and pulses once in his chest, wrath or alarm or some combination.  He makes himself nod calmly. “I did.”

“I didn’t wish to be the cause of any ill feeling at the time, but I feel this needs to be addressed before we part ways.” Lieve’tel folds her pale hands together and meets his gaze, steadily, serenely. “There is no debt, Percival de Rolo.”

He draws in breath through his teeth. “I think perhaps --”

She continues without a pause, right over him, soft and relentless. “There was at one time, to be sure, but that debt was incurred by _you_ , when you laid hands on the tomb of the Matron’s Champion.”

The breath goes out of him, all of it at once. Heat flares again in his chest, as though he’s been shot and it hasn’t started to hurt yet.

“The onus fell on Vex'ahlia,” Lieve’tel continues, “for she was standing beside you when you put forth your hand, and was taken up willingly by her brother Vax'ildan. And there it ended, for he gave himself to the Matron in payment of the debt, and She accepted him. And when in time he was slain in battle, beyond any spell of resurrection, She _restored_ him for a time that he might complete his final task and bid his loved ones farewell. A boon few are given.”

Carefully, he flattens his cold hands against his thighs, preventing them from shaking or clenching. Did he think that was humility in her demeanor, even false humility, only a few breaths ago? Did he really?

She’s still talking. There’s no malice at all to her voice, and her eyes are clear and untroubled. “You speak from grief, and much can be forgiven of the grieving … but do not delude yourself, as so many have, that you are owed something for your pain. We, the Trust of Winter, we owe all honor to the Champion for his sacrifice, and to you for your service to Vasselheim and to all Exandria. But I have aided you for what you gave, not for what you lost. And our Lady owes you nothing, save the final end she owes all. I hope you will not seek to hasten that accounting.”

There’s a distant roaring in his ears after she falls silent, as though he were underwater. Or under the surface of a pool of blood, perhaps, in a temple a world away, calling out into the red-tinged darkness; or on the steps of a different temple in the same city, only days ago, trying and failing to move a step closer to the same silent face, the same unyielding non-answer.

_I am so tired of hurting people --_

He waits for several seconds, keeping his breathing steady and his face fixed, utterly without expression; he doesn’t speak until he can be sure that he can make his voice come out similarly, light and uninflected. “Are you quite finished?”

She nods, a single graceful inclination of the head.

“Very well,” he says, and with some effort produces a faint, cool, meaningless smile. “Then please allow me to clarify my own position. We greatly appreciate the assistance you've rendered in rescuing our friend's soul, in whatever spirit it was given. And I'd take it as a courtesy if you didn't speak to me again.”

He has the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen just slightly, seeing her mouth open and then close again, before he turns and walks off down the corridor, stretching his arm, flexing his empty hand.


End file.
